What Was Your Name Again?
by CitrusLove
Summary: The Death Note cast are in an Alternative Universe.. our own. Each begins to discover that the Hollywood high-life ain't no paradise. Crack/drama, pairings will become clear later on.
1. Bastard Presenters

_AU; completely. Our universe.. No, I don't own Death Note, or Another Note, not even Takeshi Obata and Tsugumi Ohba themselves.. O.o_

_This is.. crazy. But it has a lot of ideas I wanna try out.. Heh. I suppose its crack-ish, and there will definitely be pairings of the yaoi-nature involved. Review, because I don't know whether to continue.._

_Read, my minions!_

_;D_

* * *

"Look—I don't care what you think. If any anime character in the whole world deserves vast quantities of fan-girl love, it's L."

"That's totally debatable, Ms. Nishikawa. I can think of _plenty_ of other characters that deserve their popularity. But if we're talking Death Note, I'd say Beyond over L. Hell, he didn't even get _recognition_ of his death..."

"That's because he's in the Spin-Off novel, obviously. Which was written _after_ the manga was published. You sure know your stuff, Hideki-_san._"

Hideki narrowed his eyes; a very subtle move, mind you, but not unnoticed by the producers it seemed.

"Aaaaand, its time for a break! Join us for more 'Otaku-Debate' time on ABC2, real soon!"

-

Light felt vaguely nauseous as he switched off the corrupting screen, the brightness that'd been searing his eyes for hours finally diminished.

The aforementioned program, a monstrous creation, Light thought, stretching his legs on the sofa and reaching for his cold water on the side-table, was very much like day-time infomercials. It seemed the longer the debate dragged on, the more desperate the presenters became, suddenly springing out all sorts of deals and taboo subjects they'd been told never to bring up.

So much for body-guards and all that, 'no rumours discussed' crap; it was on all the time. Even when interviewing him, the presenters would tend to swerve the conversation into the realm of choking and spluttering:

"So, Light Yagami, tell me about how everyone's been handling themselves these days, with all the fame and merchandise. How's L doing?"

Light would cautiously lean back into the chair, looking directly into the greasy son-of-a-bitch's eyes: "He's fine."

"Ahaha, of course, of course. I mean, he's coping with his publically-known death and mass fan-base well?" The presenter took a swift sip of water, his tacky gelled hair gleaming under the camera's glare, "There's been no emotional drama, ne?"

"We're not known to have 'emotional drama,' as you put it, Mr. Kyouichi."

Light was firmly trying to move the subject somewhere else; ANYWHERE else—whether it was discussing the upcoming American re-make, or his father or just _anything_, anything at all.

Apparently, showbiz were less sympathetic. Ratings. Viewers. Money.

The molten rage bubbled like a fever in Light's throat, trying to force its way, urging him to choke out_, "Why don't you go interview some REAL trash, you perverse gold-digging sleaze! You're the scum I was intent on killing!"_

"Huh. From what I've heard, Mr. Yagami," Mr. Kyouichi was all smiles and cheesed-up lines and orange-tinted cheeks, "Just because things like, 'emotional dilemmas' don't happen in the series, doesn't mean they don't happen _at all._"

Light's perfectly arranged auburn locks seemed to gain a ruby hue, as if transforming into something more hellish, his eyes continuing to lock with the bastard-of-an-interviewer.

"So tell me. What's the scoop on you and L? What does your relationship, as characters, _involve_?"

That was **it**.

"What was your first name again, Mr. Kyouichi?"

-

Takeshi Obata and Tsugumi Ohba, as it were, were very nice creators. They mainly kept to themselves, especially Ohba, and that suited Light well. He wasn't particularly interested in the glitzy glamorous lifestyle Misa Amane was accustomed to; during the series and after.

It had come as a shock at first: to discover his whole life, a whole world he'd always known, a world he'd _died_ trying to change, was utterly unreal. A fabrication, a creation, a daydream. There were a million sad/philosophical other words that could be used to describe **exactly **what Light Yagami experienced, but to be perfectly honest, he didn't give a flying Mello-branded-missile's worth what others thought of his life, his new one in particular.

For starters, he wasn't dead! That was a glorious and refreshing discovery to say the least.

But then, as you have it, neither was L. Or Mello. Or his father. Or Naomi Misora. Or... well, everyone else's deaths that he had orchestrated during the course of 37 episodes/12 mangas.

Fear was another emotion that had swept through him; Rem! He had killed her! He was screwed!

Followed closely by the even more urgent: HOLY SHIT, L, WATARI, POLICE, LETHAL INJECTION, DEATH NOTE, SHIT—SHIT SHIT SHIT...

The explanations that followed, after Mr. Obata had rushed to his side, obviously realising that your main character _freaking the hell out_ probably wasn't great for anyone within the vicinity, were greatly relieving.

He wasn't dead! He repeated the mantra over and over, soothing his newly awakened tingly nerves.

Then, the humiliation.

He had died. Millions of people had seen it. What's more, the fucking anime director had decided it'd be a laugh to have dramatic close-ups of his face while he was dying—or worse, his last speech in the Yellow Box warehouse. Not exactly the most flattering of times, really.

_

* * *

_

_A few months earlier: _

_-_

_-_

The entire Death Note cast were all in a richly decorated room, equipped with all the delicious and luxurious tools needed to keep its characters busy, in particular the Wammy Boys'.

Near's assistants had showered him with colourful toys, special-edition and deluxe packs of figurines. Mello, of course, was almost swimming in his reign of chocolate bars and its shiny wrappings. Matt was content with his new gaming systems, stylized DS-covers, state of the art cell-phones...

Beyond was messily eating jam, to everyone's disgust, but, thank goodness, everyone _else_ has their own vices to deal with.

Light was feeling so uptight, even Misa's gothic corset could not compete with his epic tight-ness. His whole body felt paralyzed in a state of 'I'm–surrounded-by-people-who-want-to-KILL-me.'

He had never seen Mello before, but the leather-suited man of bob-blondness was so intent on staring at him with homicidal intent, he instantly knew. No one else was crazy enough to blow up a whole structure whilst in the middle of it; no one else was crazy enough to wear clothes that tight and hair that long. The two matched, Light nodded to himself.

And then, his real parents had entered the room..

Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata.

"Uh, hey guys. We're your creators..."

Like a bomb.

_...WHAT?!_

* * *

_The magical button beckons you! Review, suggest ideas, anything. xD _

_peaceeeee.._


	2. LaidBack Creators

_Bwahaha! Thanks for the reviews! Now, __**now** I know exactly what I want to do. Oh yes. This chapter basically sets up for the incoming paragraphs of madness and hysteria. xP_

_There's probably mistakes. Somewhere. If you are like me, and tend to comb through things with a magnifying-glass, let me know if there are any errors! I made Tsugumi a girl, because of her self-portrait drawing and the slight feministic-traits I looked for in Death Note: How To Read 13.. I hope thats okay!_

_R&R, you crazy fools! _

* * *

Everyone stared in wonder as the two Japanese 'creators,' as they had put it, stepped into the room. Takeshi Obata cleared his voice, looking anxious and keen to get this over with.

"Look, this is probably more a shock to most of you than other characters in, say, One Piece or NANA, since the majority of all of you gathered here are supposed to be _dead_."

Tsugumi idly tidied up some papers, searching the room for any lone cups of drink or any other objects on the brink of disorder. Light sympathized immediately; subconsciously nodding with all other characters to yes, go on, Mr. Creator.

"The Bleach cast are getting the exact same speech at the end of the hall, so I'm going to cut it short. Everyone here _is_, originally, a manga character."

Light noticed not even Near could control the rampant emotions running through his face.

"But, thankfully, in your universe, everything that occurred to you is, _was_, real. Meaning, you all have your supreme intelligence or looks in tact." Misa quickly stole a glance at the reflective surface of a nearby vase; Takada snorted and, as if deciding 'snorting' was not for a woman of her calibre, quickly changed it into a light cough.

Takeshi Obata continued, "I am your artist, Takeshi Obata. Tsugumi Ohba is your creator, plot-maker, whatever you wish to refer to as 'the brains.'" Mello raised a fine eyebrow and produced a loud _crack_ with his teeth, munching away and critically eyeing up Ohba.

L followed Mello's gaze in wonder, slightly in awe. Light watched Ohba gain a slight smirk to her face as she levered herself into a chair, tucking her legs in, mimicking two other's positions in the sumptuously designed hotel room. _Or was it,_ Light's eyes darkened,_ the other two that were mimicking __**her? **_

Needless to say, he seriously needed to lie down with a mouth-full of aspirin after this... whatever this was meant to be. A confrontation so insanely life-changing, even a whole sky raining Death Notes could not have grasped his attention at this moment? Indeed.

And that stood for everyone else... Light started thinking of sweets falling from the sky, then puzzle pieces...

Suddenly, Tsugumi rose from the sofa and approached the gold-plated handle of the door. She stepped outside for a moment, and several members of the rather freakish gathering leaned out of their chairs to spy her making ushering-type gestures.

Three large, heavily suited men entered, bearing moustaches bristling proudly and, it seems, cardboard boxes. Full of what..?

The man that seemed to be in charge, bald with dark sunglasses, nodded to Obata and Ohba. As abruptly as he'd arrived, he quickly vanished with the other two.

Light furrowed his brow; if _that_ wasn't suspicious, he didn't know what was.

"Later, other mediums will be delivered," Obata finished, leaving a knife on top of one of the boxes. Then, seeming to realise the rather hungry expression making itself known on Beyond Birthday's pallid face, reconsidered, and handed the knife to L personally. L instantly understood, and Light read the strange sort of feeling that was passing through the entire being that was the silent brood: _they know everything._

L stood, his white shirt and denim jeans casting a gleam of ethereal power, a respect that instantly glimmered out of Near, Matt and Mello's richly-coloured irises. The other man, who Light didn't yet know as the infamous Beyond Birthday, stubbornly took to reading and re-reading the jam labels on his collection of jars.

L approached the box, opened it, and peered inside. Teru rose also, slowly making his way to the boxes.

Light realised they must of _all_ been told of the circumstances within the odd hospitals they'd woken up in. Matsuda, Mogi, Ide and Aizawa, with his father being the most muted of all the police officers, were murmuring with each other in one corner of the room, which, he realised, was reminiscent of the five-star complexes L tended to reside in.

Takada and Misa had been sitting with Teru, either watching the display that was the Wammy Kids in horrific fascination, or staring at his person with heartfelt sympathy.

L pulled out a book, and Light felt himself sink a little lower in his seat. He ignored the gasps and noises of shock; he knew _exactly_ what this was. Beyond was watching him now, a.k.a the weird L-lookalike that had been gazing fondly at the top of people's heads during Obata's speech.

The cover was a luminescent crème colour, with a curled up L peering cautiously out of the over. L's two-fingered grip slackened, slightly. Light looked into the disastrous mess of charcoal locks which spiked out which-way in a hazard-worthy fashion.

_So, its time to read, is it? _

Light Yagami straightened his collared dress-shirt, pressed his palms against his perfectly-prepared pair of slacks, and reach in to pick out volume one of Death Note.

* * *

Light drained the last of his water, lazily picking up the latest Time magazine. He'd had to read up on a lot: Not just his own series, but all the other popular mangas these days. Then, the live-action movies (in which he'd criticized harshly to an L on-his-eighth-caramel-popcorn-bucket) the novel, (and suddenly, the invitation to Beyond's apartment-warming party seemed to get lost somewhere, he wasn't sure), and the fangirls.

The fangirls.

_The_ fangirls.

Light tried smothering his whole face into the pillow, succeeding in only wheezing his way to grab his cell. It had gone like this: shock, flattery, anger, creeped out, gratefulness, calm, laid-back about it. Thank _god _(he grinned to himself) that he hadn't the nerve to go on those game-shows where your SOUL is laid out on the table.

Couldn't say the same for Matsuda, heh heh.

Then again, the 400-something messages on his cell-phone, which was now being flung from his hand to the nearest wall, seemed to say otherwise.

They seemed to emphasize his own impending doom.

* * *

_Hmmm..._ Hmmm indeed.


	3. Uncomfortable Enemies

_Hey hey. The tone of this is a little different from the other two.. A tad more serious D:_

_Well, we can't just go full-force into Light making raunchy-music videos too soon, can we ? xD [well, maybe we could..]_

_This is a mere establishment of the current relationship between you-know-god and you-know-detective. :)_

_R&R, please!_

* * *

Light Yagami, in the entirety of his existence, always had the upper hand.

It was a permanent pedestal he sat on, its supercilious roots well accustomed to his graceful body in the twenty-three years Light Yagami had been exposed to the busy world of today.

He had been raised in a tightly scheduled culture; a rabbit-breeding rampage that ran through the metropolis of Tokyo, controlled with clockwork-cued politeness and formalities, forever trying to prolong the chaos that would come.

Light's eyes were multi-layered; they were chocolate, they were golden, and, at confusingly dark moments, a grim crimson if the light angled correctly.

_The flesh-colour of a beating heart._

Through these almond expanses, he saw the obvious re-wiring and loud calls for maintenance on a daily-basis in the dark rabbit-hole he lived in. Calls for change. Light had always refused to be brought down by the even louder dull tones of corruption that made the good people's worries and needs inaudible.

Light believed in his own capabilities so strongly, without a slither of doubt to curse the brightness of his eyes (that seemed to swap iris-outfits so often), that his own well-being, insignificant and small in the boisterous glitter that framed his ideals... could easily be forgotten.

His upper hand; he held it proudly, arrogantly.

He had used it to slide pass each of the pieces L had snuck around the metaphorical board that was the game that would make his godhood. He could deal with every failure, every stalling in the queue to his show of righteousness.

He'd show them all! Light had believed this with a passion, and when his pedestal fell, the roots that had kept him upright and standing suddenly choking him, _betraying_ him, making him _lose_ his unrelenting fist—plans, ideals, the things most precious...

He'd lost them.

_He'd lost..._

So, it was no surprise, when L smirked and told him those two, fizzing, disgusting, **toxic** words...

He'd lost it.

In the midst of Mello's brand-new apartment(which was empty, apart from them), on a sunny and cloudless day, sweet and pleasant, two grown adversaries began throttling each other.

Light's knuckles knocked back the smoothness of L's cheekbone, sending the back of his head to the armrest of the sofa. L's eyes were dangerous black holes as he retaliated; his lean forearm pulling Light's collar downward, giving him the opening to plummet his bony knee into Light's torso. Light stopped his head from colliding with the sleuth's forehead, his fists delving into the soft sofa-tissue.

Light held himself up, breath hitching as he brought his upper-body into a position not unlike that as of a grizzly-bear. The very thought of Kira in a bear-suit made L chuckle, in which he received a _smack_ as Light's fist cheerfully rendezvoused with L's not-so keen jaw bone.

"I am so _happy_," L began, sore and swollen in several places, "That you are finally being honest with me; especially in that rather violent and childish way that so often accompanies the murderer Kira."

"And I," Light seethed, keeping his position atop the wrestling detective, "Am so delighted to be able to unburden such honesty." The trademark smirk founds its way onto his lightly heated face, "That reminds me...Are you going to apologize for that?"

The question was blinked away, L sitting up as Light slipped off, making himself more presentable via many gestures of brushing away invisible fluff, and settling for crossing his arms.

_Defensive_, L thought, and reached for his knocked over tin of Pocky-sticks. He delicately put one between his lips, and, as if contradicting himself, mercilessly began grinding the thing between his teeth like a lawn-mower.

"Need I remind you," L's pale face gained that superior, child-like expression that made others difficult to take him seriously, "_Who_ laughed on _whom's_ grave for forty consecutive seconds?"

Ouch. Light had forgotten (though only for a moment, of course) the dreadfully sizable weapon depot that L had attained after the so-called glorious resurrection.

The ammunition L now had was plentiful; the bullets strewn across his chest, chained to the AK47s and SMGs and, on the special occasion, rocket-launchers, were each carefully marked with the pathetically fragile words: 'Light Yagami's Pride.'

And, unfortunately, each bullet that penetrated Light's humble being also came with a special feature: an irresistible itch that burned until Light gave in and clawed his fingers onto his skin.

Like now, for example.

"Yes, I do remember that. I also remember laughing when two of your successors died as well, though they did not have my attention as _nearly_ as much as you did when you dropped your pompous little spoon..."

Light lifted a finger to his chin, scratching it lightly and mock-reminiscing as he secretly gloated at the fresh look of feral violence that passed through L's eyes, the sides of his mouth clenching.

"As much as I do admire the use of correct grammar and pronounciation..." L was ice now, Light thought, "Your loss did not merit the bizarre usage of _puns._"

Then, L did something.

The bastard decided to switch tactics and start playing dirty.

Meaning, he tackled Light to the _very_ edge of the sofa and began to lean into Light's inner-inner personal bubble a _very_ inappropriate distance. "What," Light narrowed his eyes, "Are you trying to accomplish? Please, if your needs aren't being satisfied by the millions of fan-girls, don't come crying to me..."

"On the contrary," and L smiled awkwardly, but somehow achieved the evilish demeanour, "I hear my needs being satisfied, as you yourself put it..." And L leaned in closer still, "by Light Yagami," and Light didn't dare move, his neat fringe now coming in contact with the pitch spikes, "is _all_ the rage."

"Oh?"

"Mmhmm." A deep murmer, and Light started to panic. He was used to the innuendo and joking, but, seriously...

"Since when did the Legendary L give a damn about what was in style?"

L chuckled, his breath curling past Light's moist lips, "So its the _Legendary_ L now is it, Kira-kun?"

Light laughed nervously, closing his eyes to take away the image that was replaying in his head, and began for the door.

* * *

Uncomfortable moments like this, Light thought, were better off played by mediocre actors in daily soaps. _Which reminds me_, Light remembered, _I have a model-shoot to go to.._

* * *

__

:O Say what, Raito ? Modelling ?

_Yes, modelling.. :D_


	4. OrangeTinted Cake Offenders

_Sorry for such a long update! A variety of things, anyway...Good thing I've written the next three chapters then, huh? :D_

_I don't own Death Note! But I do own Gloria, Steve and Richard, though. _

_Warning for later chapters: they WILL possibly get longer. I don't by how much, but I'm trying to keep each one around bite-sized. I don't want anyone to choke. _

_xD_

* * *

"So..! Mr. Lawwwliet, you're going to have a dietician AND a personal trainer! Isn't that exciting?!"

She was a thick woman, with a hair-cut straight from the latest Cosmopolitan magazine and a matching enthusiasm for all things superficial and a bright, bubble-gum pink. L shielded himself from the holy glare of her rosy button-up cardigan and matching gloves.

"And why would I need such people in my already booked-out schedule..?" L asked, a little incredulously, though mind you, you'd have to be extra sharp to tell. Sharper than this woman's French-manicured nails, that was for sure.

"Well, honey-bunch," And L knew already that he was permanently scarred by the phrase, and vowed never to touch a honey-jar again,

"You're a little... underweight. If you don't want the media eating you for lunch...," L cringed again; what was this woman _doing_, putting him off food? "We need to get your weight up! You're terribly skinny, but never fear! I, Gloria Parker, have found the PERFECT guys for the job!"

Sitting in his hotel room, slouched over a trail of confectionaries, L froze in mid-nibble as two flamboyant men entered.

Firstly, L was just not used to random people seeing him personally, (seeing as the majority of his life was spent in utter isolation and secret) and secondly, L would _never_,(not even for a creamy white gateau) _ever,_ let two bright-orange buffoons loose in _his_ $500-a-night penthouse apartment.

Needless to say, the cherry-toffee candy was quite forgotten, tipping off the teeth of the slim fork.

"Hey there!" A sandy-blonde haired man yelled out, somehow unaware of L's rather adept hearing, thank-you, "I'm Steve, and I'm your personal-trainer! Richard here is your dietician!"

Richard gave a little wave and proceeded to sit on the plush couch, resting his feet up in a relaxed manner and crossing his fingers,

"So, L, we're going to be serious about this. Me and Richard here(no, no, no, its Richard and _I_, L thought) are going to help you get active and get in-shape! You'll be the best detective in the world AND a super-fit guy!"

_I am already the best detective in the world_... L wanted to sulk a little, but settled for stubbornly resuming his eating of his calorie-high brunch, watching the horrified expression warping onto Richard's tanned face, "Oh no! What are you doing?!"

His squeal urged L on, who now grabbed an éclair and slid the entire thing into his mouth, chewing the pastry while staring at the nervous health-freak with unadultered bliss, "Eating."

Gloria laughed nervously, crossing and uncrossing her legs, failing to neutralize the tension rising like a kettle on too much heat. L didn't see why not, after all; two complete idiots were getting their fake-tan all over his couch; why _shouldn't_ he spit their celery-diet crap right back into their faces?

And the éclairs were exquisite, after all.

Sadly, L's attempts at crushing their hopes of persevering with the sleuth failed miserably. Especially the moment Steve handed him a deep-plum coloured leotard and neon-striped trainers.

* * *

Light ran through the back streets of downtown—homeless and drunk be damned, he wasn't dealing with the crowds today! He didn't want to be late and have to deal with any shit...

After leaving Mello's apartment, he'd checked his phone to see over 45 new messages, mostly from his manager going on and on and on about how he was to be on the cover of the latest Pulp magazine, as well as modelling for the big names like Calvin Klein, Giorgio Armani, Banana Republic, Ralph Lauren, Hugo Boss, Dolce & Gabbana..

Although male models generally are paid less and are without the mass publicity that female models experience, Light Yagami had been told he was a walking gold mine.

"_A gold-mine!"_ They'd said. Light nearly tripped walking down all the stairs on his way into the basement studio, feeling like a complete ass now that he wasn't hell-bent on cleansing society.

He power-paced through a small arcade: little cheese-shops, cafes, small boutiques with a few elderly walking around aimlessly...and L in a leotard.

L in a leotard.

..._L_ in a fucking **leotard**. Purple. Leotard.

All thoughts of angry managers and make-up artists and dressing gowns and photographers fled from his mind in a mad rush to board the nearest flight to Alaska and thus, never be seen again. Well, until L (in a _leotard!_) got out of his vision.

Light then noticed a blonde man jogging alongside him, shouting things in a very loud and conspicuous way.

Light thought that maybe a tiny, detached part of himself saw this as concrete evidence... that they weren't in the world of Interpol and Kira anymore. That this here sealed the deal on their new fates as anime-celebrities.

The entire rest of him laughed like a crazy man until tears leaked from the crevices of his eyes, the aches and pains forcing him into leaning against a bench, hyperventilating, looking up at L again, then resuming the virtual insanity of the situation.

L glared at him, ignoring Steve and his idiocies and sun-kissed smile, slouching his way up to the ex-murderer.

"Hello, Light."

"Hahahah.. Hnggg...Hahaha..." Light finally gained back a little self control, and raised his bangs to stare straight into L's pained, distraught face. "Hnn.. Hello, L."

"I assume that you understand the situation..."

"What, that you have a trainer?" Light smirked, his eyes shining still with mirth, "Classy."

"Hey hey! You must be Lawliet's friend!" L noticeably shuddered at that, going onward to ignore Steve's existence. Steve stuck out his hand, "I'm Steve, the man in charge around here..."

"Oh? How's that going for you?" Light prompted, absolutely thrilled at the prospect of further humiliating L. _Ammunition, bitch._

"By the way, I'm Light Yagami." Click goes the twinkle spiralling by the incisors.

"Pleasure to meet you, Light! Heh, this one's pretty tricky..." Steve slapped L on the back, leaning forward like the backstabbing bitch from high-school, "This is my calling in life, you know? It doesn't matter how bad it is..." Steve looked at L in a sad, pitying glance, "But we'll get through this _together_."

L stared at Steve as though pop-corn would suddenly shoot out of his ears; where the fuck does this guy get his corn?

"Ah, I understand..." Light straightened his collared-shirt, nodding his head appreciatively, "I give you my best, Steve. I'm sorry, I'll have to leave you two to continue..." Light saw that L was starting to look vaguely suicidal... "Good luck. Have fun, L."

Light strode past the two fitness-to-be-buddies, nearly colliding into an old woman pushing a trolley but made it into a stylish swerve instead.

Light glanced back once, only to find L still staring at him, as if silently begging him to use his godly powers just _once_ to save him from this hell.

"Not. A. Chance."

* * *

_Haha! You thought you'd see Light modelling--not yet! _

_I'm depriving you, aren't I?_


	5. Horny Receptionists

_Another chapter! Yay! _

_One of you mentioned karma, which makes its first appearance in this chapter. Don't worry, this is what we call, 'the tip of the ice-berg'..._

_And trust me, L in a leotard(!) is going to look much nicer than what Raito will experience O.o..._

_Read on!_

* * *

Light reached the modelling studio in time, his manager clapping cheerfully.

"Chop chop!" Mr. K sang, leading Light through reception, (where the girl ogled at Light shamelessly, rubbing her thighs together) and through to the dressing room. Zane Kowalski, known as Mr. K, was a young, efficient man whom delighted in the wealth of his clients.

As soon as the new branch, (specifically designed for anime-models) was opened, he quickly nabbed the best profile he could get his hands onto:

_Name: Light Yagami _

_Anime: Death Note_

_Age: 23_

Kowalski claims that at that very moment, he stopped breathing.

Fine, silky strands of auburn and gold framed a smooth, flawless face of masculine beauty at its most stunning. Kowalski was near drooling as the sums were added up in his head, and the next thing he did was harass every person in the vicinity for this 'Yagami's' cell-phone number.

And though a COMPLETE money-schemer at heart, Kowalski was blessed with the art of persuasion. His talents brought him the very same Light Yagami he ordered off his menu of possible-penny-jackpots.

Kowalski had tilted his navy pin-striped trilby, (which was _SO_ in style) and straightened his retro-esque suit in arrogant adjustments. He was playing the right cards, because Light had immediately relaxed somewhat at his show of confidence.

"_You're a star, baby. And you __**will**__ flaunt it, with flair and elegance, I can promise you. Light Yagami will be __**THE**__ poster-boy, __**THE**__ billboard, __**THE **__calendar-guy every girl wants for Christmas... __**THE**__ male model!"_

For all his precious promises, Kowalski sure didn't fail to deliver the goods...

* * *

Hence Light sitting in his leather-padded seat now: three make-up artists bronzing his shoulders with glittery dust, lightly moisturizing his cheek-bones, plumping his lips with lip-butter.

Light, wearing a pair of the new summer-range briefs, (devised for optimum comfort and sophistication—to add to the wearer's pre-established-body-of-perfection with a thin, breathing-cotton) slowly nestled into the mentality needed to survive the extreme feelings of narcissism and vanity that would follow.

Light knew it was dangerous to think that high of oneself, knowing now how hard the fall was... But it was also knowing he was being used; a prostitute to the lens, waving in the flashes of teeth and simulated encouragement...

So Light did his ritual; the mini-meditation needed to go into 'Raito the Model-Mode,' in which most of his advanced thought processes/passages would take a coffee break and let him be. This was hard, and required a lot of concentration, which would sadly result in him stressing off his concealer, and a make-up artist would panic and frantically re-apply it before the shoot.

"Okay! Let's go guys! Time is money!" _Shuffle. Clutter. Click. Switch._

And so it began.

The backdrop was a minimalist-style bedroom, pale Egyptian cloth curtains hanging loosely.

The sheets were a river of creases and hills that circled around Light's thighs and the corner of the material hung from his mouth. Head bowed, tilt the chin, show off the neck.

_Flash. _

_Flash, Flash, Flash._

"That's it! Very sexy!"

Light changed his position slightly, giving the photographer, (with an Italian name now too complex for his now-non-advanced memory) a better view of his ass. _Click. Click. _

"More varied poses! That's it! Great creativity, Mr Ya_gai_me!" Light ignored the hideous pronounciation of his last name, sliding half-way off the mattress, shoving his lower-torso out more in a tempestuously-relaxed pose, head rolling back onto the bed, arms stretching and fisting bundles of cloth.

At that moment, Light seemed to remember L in a leotard.

"Woah, a bit much! Less sex, more_ fierceness_, honey!"

Light was deaf.

L, the skinny thing, running around in a purple-leotard.

_Hnnnggg. No, no, I can't start laughing._

"Light?"

_I, hnnnn... I can't..._

_Start... _

"Light, you need a break man?"

"Hngggg..."

At which point, Gloria Parker, L's personal assistant, came rushing into the production suite. She started whispering to a couple of on-lookers hurriedly, "There isn't much time, there's already a crowd of at least 300..."

Light froze mid-pose, "A crowd? _Now?_"

Gloria raised her strawberry-blonde head, her pink-gloved fingers stilling their movements. "Aha, yes, crowds..." Light noticed she was tracing the outline of his crotch, and quickly wrapped himself in the blankets nearby.

"What do you mean, 'crowds'?"

Ah, it was Mr. K, Light thought, sighing a little as his manager strutted up to Gloria, "And since when did you get access in here, sweetie? Can't you see we got a _production_ goin' on here?"

"Well," Gloria smiled her wide smile, "I thought I'd let you know Yagami's fan-mass is here... So good luck getting him out of here..." A long, long look at Light's covered body, "..._unscathed_." A click of her ruby-red heels and Gloria was off to Kansas, or whatever equally fairytale neighbourhood she had come from.

* * *

Whilst Light was pleased Gloria hadn't entered with her usual catch-phrase, "Heeeereee's –insert celebrity name-!" he was none-too happy with his behaviour _or_ what chaos was occurring outside his dresser's door. He couldn't believe had begun _laughing_, much less at L's expense, whilst in the middle of a shoot.

What's more, L's skin-tight leotard kept popping in for a cuppa every 30 seconds, and his subconscious didn't mind getting the scones out, either.

Light used a tissue to wipe away the remains of lip-muck, slipping into a pair of khaki's and a black shirt. He cautiously opened the door, the sounds of chattering and squealing amplified; they were all at reception.

As he walked out the door, Mr. K signalling him to the get-away back-exit, an anonymous-looking guy slid in after him. Light briefly turned around; he'd never seen this man before at any of the studios, looking formidable in a dirty mustard trench-coat and beanie.

"Look, look!! There he is!!"

Too late.

"OH MY GOD, LIGHT FRIGGIN' YAGAMI!"

"You are sooo hot!"

"Amazing!!"

"My sister makes out with your picture every night! She's on the phone right now, say hi!"

"—Light! Kill my boyfriend for me!!"

"—be my sex-god! Oh my god, oh my god, please add me on MySpace and Beb—"

Light rushed out of the way, the swarm of girls closing in on him, Mr. K feeling further and further in the distance, a signal of hope that was _dying_...

And then, it got worse.

Paparazzi, like insects scuttling around the flowers, edged in, "He-lloooo, Mr. Light!"

"Who were you modelling for? Is L here? You two are such _naughty_ boys!"

The look of utter repulsion earned him a final _Click._

The concatenation inevitably would lead to Light, front-cover on the to-be-published OK! magazine, the neon-letters preaching, "LIGHT UNHAPPY: SUICIDAL STARS FROM THE EAST" which would be lying innocently on Mello and Matt's infamous coffee-table.

* * *

_Soooo, next chapter we will be moving to **Mello**'s perspective... _

_If you love him(like I do) or just like seeing shame, stick around!_

R&R xD


	6. Celebrity CopyCats

_Sorry for the long update! School has just begun, and... its becoming increasingly difficult to get into the mind-frame needed for comedy. _

_So I apologize for the cynical outlook that seeps a little into this chapter D: _

_The next half will be put up tomorrow, thats a promise ;D This one isn't particuarly great, even though I re-wrote it.._

_Thats all!_

* * *

Mello was in therapy.

This simple fact could bring up all sorts of conclusions, but, Mello hypothesized, none really would hold any weight. His boots crossed each other over as he scanned the room's occupants, who were also sitting in chairs in a large circle.

Two women with clipboards called out names and ticked off their lists, making quick notes here and there on their scoreboards of misery.

But Mello was not miserable, or depressed. In fact, he wasn't really much of anything at the moment, and although labelled as 'emotional,' Mello desperately tried to reason it was _only_ because he was being compared to robotic substitutes for a laptop.

Not that L was a laptop, obviously; but giving out personal details of his predecessor was always going to be taboo in his mind and for Willy Wanker's sake, he was only making a point!

No, this all started with the damned OK! magazine... it's pathetic, pernicious excuses of 'journalists,' with their articles being 100% french-fry grease glossed over with trashy packaging.

Mello admitted the very remembrance of the _loud-mouthed ass-kissing idiot_ sent his teeth into a grinding frenzy. He distracted them absently with a bar or two, savouring the bitter-sweet taste of mercy the chocolate offered at his relentless butchering via Mello Fangs.

The reason he and Matt had purchased the Demon Mag was because in an interview, Mello, giving a shot at being good-natured and humorous, chuckled:

"But you know, everyone is _totally_ copying my style now... I mean, take a look at Lady GaGa. These girls know they can't get in my pants, so now they're wearing them! Honestly, the Mello Look is _seulement pour le plus sexy_."

[translation: _only for the sexiest_]

Sarcasm, irony and any of its silently-humorous brothers were lost on the interviewer, who proceeded to urgently scribble down Mello's words in Gossip Speak: "It's fucking annoying, all these bitches are jealous of me, but only because its obvious who's the most popular. Lady GaGa is _such_ a whore."

Mello left in a panic, texting his manager and trying to get hold of the Demon Mag's main reception office: the cold, luminescent cave where the white-haired unicorns slept in.

The thought itself made Mello clutch his torso in slight nausea, gold bangs obscuring his view as he rushed back to his apartment.

As usual, it was a mess; courtesy of L and Light. As much as Mello respected their intelligence, couldn't they have picked up the cushions and replaced them on the sofa?

His bending over to attend to the disaster earned a slap on the butt from his loyal follower, who smelt of a petunia-rose garden with an undertone of violet and orange.

_For fuck's sake, what the hell is Hollywood doing to my head? My life isn't going to become some second-rate reality garbage... And... why did Matt even do that?"_

"Hey sweet-cheeks," Matt waved weakly from over his head, and Mello watched in horror as he threw his jacket over his shoulder like some Suburban-Picket-Fence-Husband returning from the CEO office.

"Matt, I'm going to kill you if you allow yourself to become tainted by fame. You know the power of corruption..." Mello airily swung a magnum around his finger, waiting for Matt's reply, "I know, I know. I'm not some virgin Disney star, Mel. Don't worry."

_Don't worry?_

Of all the weird and wicked individuals Mello had come across, he could say with certainty that he was the most paranoid of all. Why the hell had he agreed to go to the interview? He turned and tossed and ripped apart the matter in his head, frustrated at the seductive advances of this new industry.

And they were so upfront about it, too. During his training and his time in the Mafia, Mello was well taught in the ways of subtlety. He was a sophisticated man, with a sophisticated tongue, and this new place he'd woken up in was certainly not Heaven.

He wasn't dead, and he wasn't being hunted, hunting, or planning to be either of the three, but these alien forces were definitely taking a toll on him.

He flung himself onto the sofa, and waited for the new issue of the Demon Mag to be published.

* * *

He and Matt had carefully leafed through it, waiting for the horror to be uncovered. Between all the perfume and cosmetic advertisements, which were hell-bent on taking up as much space as possible, Mello spotted a few articles here and there regarding his fellow anime characters.

Matt and Mello had exchanged a glance before completely disregarding the block-letters and photographs exclaiming Light's apparent suicidal tendencies, until they were three quarters of the way through.

"It... doesn't look like its here, Mello." Matt breathed a sigh of relief, flicking through the horoscopes and cooking passages, huddling closer to Mello in order to read the advice column.

"You know I won't believe that until this filth has been analyzed thoroughly and..." Mello stopped reading about weight loss and turned another page:

**'SNAPPED: Code Geass' Lelouch Let Loose in the Lingerie Store.'**

"Ouch," Matt said, and Mello felt rather than saw his cell-phone buzz on the coffee-table.

_Flick._

"Yeah?"

"Mello, Mello! Are you reading the latest OK! Magazine now?!" Mr. Lavender screeched, and Mello paused to pull the thing away from his ear, "Yeah, I am."

_Short, stiff sentences_, Mello memorized. _Nothing personal, no opinions, just the facts..._

"Well, good news! The Code Geass guy got 'snapped' instead! This was going to be _your_ slot of shame, but their editor wanted something a bit raunchy for their upcoming edition of male-model culture!"

"Oh, lovely." Mello rolled his eyes and was about to snap his phone when—

"WAIT!"

"Yes?"

"Ahem..." Oh, so he was shy now?

"The documents will come in the mail but..." And Mello noticed Matt tilting his head to better-eavesdrop, and pushed his autumn-fire locks away. "But..?"

"Mello, don't get angry..." _Hmm, the most illogical statement to make right now._

"Yes?" The prompts and Mello's apprehensive tone gave Matt the incentive to intrude again, this time landing in Mello's midnight-skinned lap, pulling his blonde hair down to better listen.

"You're... You're going to go to therapy..."

Mello's knees jerked up, Matt hitting his head on the telephone receiver and whining as bolts of lightning struck the apartment.

"For what reason?!"

"It's really common, Mello. Different groups are being advised to attend within the coming months... the new stresses of our world seem to be having a negative affect on your people, and the psychology unit is thrilled to get access into the minds of fiction..."

"Don't you _dare_ try to butter me up with shit like that, Lavender." Mello hissed the words, the acid-venom in his veins rushing to his knuckles.

"It'll be totally confidential, I promise!" Mr. Lavender rushed, and Mello could _see_ his squinting eyes and weak, shaking hands, "Away from the media and the public eye, it'll only be twice a week, and cost you nothing! I'm saying this to you as your friend as well!"

"You're telling me, as my _friend_, that I need therapy?!" _I could pull the trigger on this presumptuous pisshead __**right**__ now..._

Matt, the man in stripes waving no flag, took the receiver from Mello's fist and answered,

"He'll be right there, okay? Thanks." And he hung up.

_Huh?_

"What the fuck?"

Matt was _agreeing _with him? That he actually needed therapy? Mello couldn't believe his eyes, staring at Matt slightly betrayed...

"No, Mello." And Matt grinned, his red spikes curling into his smile, "You're going to go in there and _get them back_."

Mello watched in fascination as Matt whistled his way into master-chief pajamas and eerily swapped his orange-tinted goggles for a darker shade.

* * *

_So... Am I boring you to death? Please don't kill me D:_

_And yes, there are reasons why Matt isn't mister-nice-guy, which will be explained in the next author's note!_


	7. Therapeutic Guiders

_I broke my promise!! Garghhh!!! I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Proof that juggling homework and fanfics really, really doesn't work too well (for me, it seems.)_

_So I present you with a longer chapter in utter shame D:_

_Okay, so I said Matt isn't-so-nice. Why?_

_1. He's from Wammy's House: chances are his childhood hasn't been a Blue's Clues' episode._

_2. He's Mello best man. Yeah, Mello is hot and awesome and we love him; but he's not SUPPOSED to be nice. In fact, he's referred to as a bully. And since Mello and Matt are friends (currently), Matt is likely to be influenced by such, because Mello is pretty damn influential. _

_To me, relationships are more about the two sides balancing each other out, and friendships are about the commonities. The two may morph._

_Read on ! xD_

* * *

"Let's begin."

The harmonious (but loud) clanging of a bell sounded within the room, with its white-wash walls morphing into a creamy orange. The late afternoon's streaks of light sent particles swirling into the spotlight, and a sigh swept through.

Mello allowed himself to stare a little at the speaker. She was in her mid-30's, with a hopeful face that brightened like a new star bursting into the universe's biological womb.

Mello felt only too obliged to see it explode and die, just like the other millions of losers who spent their lives baring toothy grins and not much else.

The other woman, wearing a short blonde crop and armed with the almighty clipboard, read out the names accordingly:

"Lucy, Elfen Lied."

A skimpy pink-haired girl raised a slight hand, flashing a pale wrist to the therapist.

Generally speaking, cat-ears(?) had the cute-lolita look to them, but these 'ears' seemed particularly ominous.

Figures. This was a goddamned nuthouse.

"Tomoe, Mai Otome."

An attractive turquoise-haired girl in a pin-striped jacket (equipped with a tight pencil skirt) grinned a little and also raised her hand.

"Shizuru, Mai HiME."

A chest-nut haired girl with, Mello decided, a rather calm and charismatic aura... She promptly nodded her head, smiling politely. He noted the way Tomoe kept glancing at her, and the Shizuru girl's absolute disregard towards her presence.

Huh. Females.

"Shion Sonozaki, Rena Ryuguu, Satoko Houjo..."

Mello felt a tightening in his stomach. What was with all these girls? A tiny voice spoke in his head, "_You're androgynous, you fool. What a shame no one can tell you're a man, heheh..." _Mello mentally sledge-hammered the bitch of a thought, contentment settling within at the mental bloodshed.

_No, this DOESN'T mean I need to be here, goddamnit!_

Luckily, some pipsqueak called Keiichi sedated his panicked cries for his masculinity, and Mello decided to listen to these new-age counsellors. After a few more people(women, Mello thought bitterly) were called off the register, the session finally began.

"I'm glad you've all agreed to take a part in this harmonious process. My name is Julia," the blonde woman pointed to herself, and Mello gritted his teeth at the patronizing gesture.

"And this is Emily," the hopeful simpleton in her thirties stood and bowed, a twinkle in her eye and probably two jars' worth of anti-depressants stuffed inside her snake-skin bag.

"We would like to start off by saying how grateful we are that you all decided to attend," Julia spoke, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, "You will each be given sheets to fill out every week as we monitor your process emotionally and socially, and how you will fit into the world of today." Sigh. "Its amazing, really, my sister watches some of the programmes you star in..."

Mello heard his cue and began unwrapping a bar of chocolate he'd stashed in his jacket's inside pocket. As he efficiently stripped it off its indulgent wrappings, shiny and perfect, slightly cool, just hard enough to snap off...

"Ah, sorry. We don't allow food in here, as it can serve as a distraction for others, Mr. Keehl."

Mello had a bizarre urge to start hissing like a cat and tackle the woman to the ground, but found some restraint in the hungry looks he was receiving. Jealous bitches indeed.

"Ah, I apologize then." Urgh. Even apologizing felt degrading, Mello noted, feeling as though his stomach was being tied in knots for some Girl Guides' exercise.

Mello's confident demands, his ruthlessness, his leaping into action and _seizing_ the Director of the NPA, the Chief of the Japanese National Police's daughter, his strategically placed explosives... _What was happening?_

Mello then remembered Matt's advice, and reminded himself why he was here. He examined the potentially-suicidal crowd once more, focusing on body language and reaction-speeds.

Julia reached into her buckle-handle bag and pulled out a plastic packet, "Here are some oils I want you all to experiment with, whether its in the bathtub or over a flame in your bedrooms. Use them when you're under stress and write down in these," and a thick stack of papers appeared, "Include how they affect you and if you like or dislike them," Emily stood up and began passing around the small bottles of ancient witchery and the forms.

After another fifteen minutes of psychology crossed with aromatherapy (which Mello learnt from a book when he was, like, eight-years old) the ex-Mafioso had zoned out.

He turned his head to his left, shuffling a bit in his seat as each member in turn talked about small things that bothered them in their daily lives.

(Another) girl sat there, looking utterly woebegone and staring down at her worn Doc Martins. Mello checked under her seat briefly, expecting a puddle of water to be there that had rained down from her metaphorical cloud of gloom.

She was pretty, but also definitely the oldest in the room. Then again, with all this magic and fantasy anime, he could be wrong. Her eyes were tired, her hair a plain mousy-brown tied up in a red ribbon.

Her clothes screamed of stay-at-home mom, but Mello spied a pager clipped onto her buttoned-up shirt. Her face was gaunt, with prominent cheek bones and sunken eyes, but, Mello thought stubbornly, there was beauty. It spoke through her tired skin, whispering between the cracks in her pink lips, screaming through her sad, sad, doe-brown eyes.

Mello wondered what the hell had gone wrong.

After an eternity, the session finally finished, and they were all sent home with homework. Mello hadn't really been paying attention, making up multiple theories on why this sad woman was the way she was. It surprised him, actually, that she hadn't even noticed his blatant staring and contemplating; maybe she had, and didn't particularly care.

He didn't catch a name, and almost completely forgot her when he saw what the homework was:

**Ways of Wisdom:**

**First Task:**

**During the course of the next week, apologize to one person you have had difficulties with over a period of time, whether it is a family member, friend, or old flame you have yet to reconcile with. **

**Patch up hard feelings and practise the breathing techniques we have taught you today, and if it is too difficult, or doesn't work, pride yourself with the fact that you tried your best.**

**Liberate yourself with words and open up to others. Letting off old grudges and pains is the true way to healing the soul and adapting to the Real World.**

Fuck.

_Near._

Fucking _Near._

_

* * *

_

"...so basically, it's a bullshit mental-institute with bullshit-psychiatrists using bull-shit science to put our lives in perspective. Basically." Mello finished, waving his hand for emphasis, "And you're not going to _believe_ the homework they gave us."

"Oh?" Matt looked up from his PS3-Game-Demo-Ordering application, "Did you dig up any dirt while you were there, you know, holding hands and crying?"

Mello scowled.

"Why aren't you asking about the homework? Didn't you hear the 'you're not going to _believe_' part of my eloquently-put tangent?"

"What does it matter? You're going to tell me anyway..." Matt crinkled his nose and shook the ball-point he was using; outta ink.

"Fine, since I'm so predictable, lets liven things up, shall we?" Mello promptly stopped his twirling with the handle of the magnum and shot twice at the wall; you know, the one a few spaces across from Matt's place on the couch.

"Mello, the tampons are in the drawer, and the paracetemol is in the top left kitchen cupboard. Go crazy."

Glaring in Matt's general direction, Mello stormed off dramatically into the kitchen.

"Oh, and I used the last pen to fill out the homework-you-don't-care-about." Mello called out before slamming the door shut and leaving Matt in the lounge.

Matt sighed, and threw the sheet away; it pathetically hovered in the tense air for a few seconds before sliding under the coffee table. Which was two inches away from where Matt sat.

Unsatisfied, Matt leapt up from the couch, stretching in his striped shirt and black/white chequered-skinny jeans. He shook his fringe a little, annoyed at his insensitivity. He had a knack for that, especially when bored shitless from countless offers to take his pants off for dirty money.

Matt eyed the closed kitchen door for a few moments; Mello was probably binge-eating now, which was a shame, because Matt had finally selected an ice-cream flavour he _liked_ (orange-chocolate-jaffa ripple, not the budget stuff, the really, really good stuff only celebrities can afford—and chocoholics).

Matt approached the door, closing his eyes for a bit then opening them. He felt safe from behind his protective orange-goggles, safe from under his messy auburn fringe, safe in his black, silken gloves. He was safe.

"Hey, can I come in?"

There was a vague grunt from the other side, so Matt took that as confirmation to enter.

Mello was slumped in a chair, facing away from the circular dinner table (they didn't have a _dining_ table, they just ate food on any hard surface) and tapping his symmetrically-comforting dark-gloved fingers on it.

"Uh, I'm sorry, " Matt began, unconsciously leaning his head the other way, feeling awkward, "You've had a shit day, and I didn't need to be a bitch about it. So tell me."

"Tell you what?"

Sigh. "The homework..." Matt edged himself closer to the door, _no, the walls weren't closing in, don't be silly..._

"Oh yeah. That." Mello relaxed somewhat, turning to Matt and staring at him from beneath his sharply-styled blonde periphery, "I'm sorry too, you know..." His eyes flickered away for a moment, "For being so uptight."

"Yeah. Don't worry." Matt smiled, and eased himself into the closest chair.

He was eager to listen to his friend... Hopefully, he would not interrupt the fragile bridge that he was quietly making his way across.

"So, I have to make things 'right,' with Near," Mello said, using two fingers to glide the 'homework' across to Matt. "I swear, some entity in some close-by dimension is getting pleasure from my misery..."

"But," Matt interrupted (_shit, shouldn't have done that_), "It says here to just apologize to a person. It doesn't have to be Near."

"Not exactly," Mello said, with intense finality, "They have my records. And there is something shifty going on... I know they know of my past relationship with the annoying brat. It'll be better if we just play along for now, and see where this leads."

Mello was in Commander-Mode, which was all very endearing, except for the pricks of jealousy at the word 'relationship.' Matt reasoned:_ I mean, c'mon. 'Near,' or the implication of him, and the word, 'relationship,' just sound **wrong** in the same sentence... _

Matt never really had anything in for the little guy.

But hey, there was a reason why he didn't join the SPK during Kira's Legacy. And it didn't _just_ have to do with the freedom of pizza and video-games on a 24/7 basis.

Mello's eyes were bluer than usual today, too. The dark branches of ice that grew around his iris seemed almost Arctic-cold, his lashes black and cat-like and altogether, rather mesmerizing...

"Matt?"

Mello may as well have been Ice-Man; Matt was pretty sure he had just been struck by an untimely blizzard of judgement-day-proportions... and left a bitterly statuesque _fool_.

Thank god the phone rang.

* * *

_This was not meant to end up like this; I wanted to include the phone-call, but decided to cut it off here and post the damn thing before it ate my brain._

_R&R! _


	8. TeenageQueen Racers

_I **think** I'm actually building plot. Plot, people. How exciting is that?! Ridiculously so for the antisocial authoress._

_I need to know what people think! _

_But, now its gotten to this point, the chances of me dropping this story is like... the likelihood of Bella going lesbian._

_Pretty much._

_Dun own Death Note!_

* * *

"_Oh baby baby if you see Amy tonight... is she in the bathroom is she smoking up outsi-"_

"—Hello?"

Mello held the phone to his ear, listening to the fuzz sounding from the other line.

"..."

_Beep._

"...the hell?" Mello glared at his background screen for a moment (a fan-art of himself divulging in chocolate) then, sighing, snapped his cell-phone shut.

"Who was that?" Matt couch-surfed his way to Mello's general proximity, tilting his head at the blonde's suspicious expression.

"...Nothing. They just hung up."

"Oh."

Silence.

Matt rummaged through his brain for _something_, something ridiculous and silly and light-hearted to cheer his leather-dressed-therapy-goer up. _Light-hearted, that was it! _

Matt plodded his way into his bedroom, reminiscent of a bombsite, gaming-containers and cans of coca-cola barring his mission. Matt bravely ploughed through the debris until he found a familiar box, gathering a few wires and rectangular-objects of aid.

_Click. _"Mellooo..."

Mello turned at the mischievous voice to find a red light beeping at him, a lens shoved under his upturned nose.

"Matt, not right now..." Mello groaned, exasperated as Matt the Cameraman settled the device atop a nearby cabinet.

"Naw, Melfioso. I thought you'd be interested in creating a _parody_." Matt attached a sparkly emphasis on the last word, waiting for Mello to rise up to the challenge.

"A parody of _what_?"

"Why, Death Note of course!" When Mello made a confused face, (which Matt had been hoping for) Matt straightened his posture and got into character.

"So, Misa. Will you be my Goddess of the New World?"

Mello grinned.

"Why, of course Light!" Mello's voice rose a few tenors, and he fabricated a squeal.

"Let's bring justice _together_!"

Matt and Mello paused, staring at each other with faux-admiration, then rushed off to acquire the materials(outfits) needed.

YouTube was to have its lucky day.

* * *

_Hustle. Bustle. _

Mikami walked about the busy streets of LA, swerving around the crowds at an alarmingly efficient rate. He continued to walk, not stroll or mosey, his way into the upper-class district until he stopped outside a black and purple building. He checked the time, broadened his shoulders, and opened the door.

A jingle rung, and the woman at the counter nodded, leading Mikami through to a leather-seat. Mirrors all around, Mikami checked the stylishly-designed boutique. A woman grinned red lips at him, her chic cut being touched up by a slender man in a black apron.

"Mikami."

"Takada."

A blonde-woman attended to him, and Mikami ordered a 'trim-and-style,' as Takada put away her magazines for chit-chat. She took a sip of her cappuccino, looking at herself in the mirror with blatant pride.

Mikami snickered and asked for refreshments for himself, letting the woman ruffle through his dark tresses.

"How has work been?" He asked, breaking the non-existent ice.

"Well, I've already been accepted by many news agencies..." Takada smirked, "Though it is lucky that we are in America; so much easier to gloss over the fine details of my role in the 'show'."

"I would imagine," Mikami agreed, "But not as easy for me. Its a wonder _L_ hasn't told every law firm in the state that I'm psychologically damaged. Things will be going smooth... until the last-episode's footage is materialised."

Takada indulged in another sip, "It will take time, but I can tell you with the utmost confidence you _will_ have a good, high-paying job. In six months at the very least. Kira forbid, there are plenty of idiots in this world as well."

"I thought you'd be less bitter, Takada-san," Mikami murmered, "Considering the new presidency for this country."

Takada sniffed, her eyes narrowing at the female celebrity posing on the magazine cover, "It will never be _enough_. The world is still corrupt; Kira was the only cure to that, and that is something that will never change." She turned her eyes to Mikami's now-wet mop of hair, "No matter what World."

Mikami hummed concurrence.

When his head and hair was thoroughly massaged, cleaned, cut and blow-dried, Mikami rose from his seat and offered a hand to the waiting red-lipped woman. "Let's."

After paying with his credit-card, the two ex-spokespeople of God sauntered (because now Mikami was with company, so naturally he had to adapt to the smaller frame of Lady Takada) down the street, hectic traffic never seizing rest.

The pair walked in silence, intently gazing off into the distance, lost in thought and vision. Which was why, when a convertible full of teenagers raced off the main boulevard and down into their street, both were violently jolted out of their worries and stresses.

"Clarissa!!"

"Oh my fucking god, you are the shit!!"

"The cops are tailing us! Fuck!"

Both turned wary sights onto the vehicle, which was waiting impatiently at the stop sign, the cops a few blocks away now.

A black-haired beauty was at the helm, giggling and throwing her head back to giggle more at the signs of impending authorial masses.

Mikami and Takada looked at each other, a mixture of worry and righteousness soaring through their pen-cursed veins. Whoever the girl was, she was a loss at what to do when the cops finally caught up, just before the intersection was clear and the rebel pressed a high-heel to accelerate.

"Ma'am, we ask that you step out of the car right now!!"

Mikami subconsciously felt for his ever-present over-shoulder brief-case; alas, all he had was his wallet in his jacket-pocket.

The girl, referred to as 'Clarissa,' with dark, dark hair and mesmerizing, unnaturally bright eyes turned to the officer, and she replied in a perfectly serious voice:

"If you show me your penis, I _might_ get out of the car."

A friend in the backseat broke into hysterics, and the officer reached for his gun, offended and disgraced.

"Ah, guess thats a no, then."

Like lightning, the pale blue Cadillac sped off so fast that Mikami's eyes spun from behind his black-rimmed glasses. And like lightning, Clarissa's Cadillac had struck very fast, leaving the thunder and roar of obscenities following. Mostly from the police officer, who was frantically requesting back-up.

-

"That was..." Takada began, blinking her lashes a few times.

"Rather unnecessary," Mikami finished, adopting a firmer tone, "for goodness sake, its only two in the afternoon, not exactly the prime time to be racing around LA."

"_No_ time is necessary for such atrocity." Takada closed her eyes, defiance shining like the sun, "You know how much I _hate_ shameless women."

"Indeed."

They continued, backs straight and heads held high, even through the most undesirable areas of the city. Mikami spent the rest of their walk criticizing _L's_ justice, the teenage incident standing out as a chief example. Why settle for **this**...

Mikami's attraction to perfection persisted through all times of unfortunate events... Even when Light Yagami had been shot down from his rightful throne (literally, too) Mikami was willing to spill his own loyal blood for true justice.

Perfect justice.

It just didn't make _sense_, Mikami thought, to be content with society as it was; a decaying, decomposing heap of toxic citizens.

And as a rule, Mikami didn't have a cell-phone. On his 9th phone-call, which happened to be an offer to join Mello in an interview, Mikami had thrown the damn thing off his glass balcony, the gadget scrapping its ass onto the gravel driveway.

Mikami himself had run down the stairs, strapping himself into his sleek Bentley and crushing the thing from under his wheel. He drove back and forth a few more times... To make a point, obviously.

...Ah, satisfaction.

Mikami was his OWN manager.

And _L_, and his preposterous gaggle of fan-girls and boys... Mikami narrowed his eyes, shuddering at the thought of the denim-clad sleuth. _L _was a waste of space,_ L _was a waste of air, _L_ was unnecessary...

_L_ was the... most popular pairing...

No, Mikami was not jealous. Why would he be jealous of a deathly-thin, _long-dead, _sugar-addict?

Who happened to be rich, respected, avenged...

No, L was inferior to Mikami.

Or thats what he told himself.

* * *

_I admit, writing L in a negative light (hah!) always makes me feel uneasy. Poor guy's still being chased about in a leotard... D; And yes, I'm going by the anime-version of Mikami, because I can't be effed going into the drama between Light and Mikami when Mikami's tells Light *spoiler* that he is scum. _

_His face in that panel reminds me of a goat though xP_

_The teenage girl's name was inspired by the Mindless Self Indulgence song, 'Clarissa.' Which I love like a dear relative._


	9. Coffee and Slang Comrades

_I haven't updated in aaaaaaaaages, but its the holidays now, so here goes! _

_Mello's been getting SO much screen time, but don't worry, we'll be seeing L and Light soon :D _

**_Don't own Death Note:_**

* * *

Mello, though forbidden, had enjoyed using the camera on numerous occasions.

It was a flashy accessory that could show exactly how attractive and talented he was at pulling off all varieties of elaborate performances. For example, the SPK's _lovely_ little tinker-toy satellite had alerted everyone that yes, Mello did in fact own missiles and yes, he _could_ blow up a helicopter if he wanted to.

It also, Mello remembered fondly, was a brilliant device for creating panic. Kira's eyes must've literally shot out of his head when his Japanese men's helmets came flying off in all directions, bowling balls that struck the walls of victory, the walls of _his _dungeon.

And when Halle, though predicted by Near to be the evitable source of knowledge for his childhood acquaintance, came strutting down the pristine hallway with a gun to her head, Mello's hood bleeding triumph to the camera's face, Mello understood the importance of exposure.

Though it was to be said, ever since he'd 'woken up', that he'd been shot, (with a camera, obviously) twenty-three times doing or _appearing_ to do things that would be unsavoury to his celebrity status, Mello wasn't feeling too good about the lens.

And now, walking down the same clean, immaculate white hallway to once again confront one of the most infuriating people on the planet, Mello shied away from the revolving heads of equipment rooted like intertwining vines in the ceiling's corners.

His heavy boots stopped at the door, a keypad to his right, and waited to be let in. Mello wore a black cotton v-neck with a heavy scarf, not because he was cold, but to hide one of his most epic failures. He hugged his body closer to him, glowering at the door and fidgeting on each heel.

An electronic voice murmured softly, "Come in."

Mello rolled his eyes and stepped into the headquarters of his unfriendly neighbourhood sheep.

Near was doing his routine half-sit in his chair, the wheels of which swinging side to side as he contemplated his structure. He fiddled with the King of Hearts in one two-fingered grip, edging it slowly into place in a gap. Mello fantasized that he should he pull out his platinum-plated magnum, he could aim the bullet right through the gap and spin the imbecile's 'play-cards' into a tumble of nothing.

But he didn't.

"Hello, Mello." Near spoke without looking away from his progressively-growing building, "It's been a while. Please take a seat, and Rester will get you a drink, if you want." Near snapped his fingers like an impatient customer, and Rester strolled in from an adjacent office.

Mello awkwardly moved to a large table used for pitching theories (he noted the holographic functions enabled) and meetings. Right now, and probably most of the time anyway, it was used for Near's constellations and figurines. Mello folded his arms, swiftly crossing over a leg. He didn't care how uptight he looked, because Near was feeling the same.

_The rascal has already done this exact formation of card-decks. Which means he's nervous and edgy, so by doing an already accomplished game with himself, he's taking away stress and trying to pass off as bored. Haha. Little Near __**is**__ intimidated by me, after all._

"Whatever you might be thinking is incorrect," Near spoke, just as Mello stopped smirking to himself. "Today has been unfortunate. I've been assigned to 'watch over' Mugen from 'Samurai Champloo,' and it is not going so well." Near pointed a pyjama-heavy finger towards an ominous corner, which appeared to have a scrap pile. _Scrap-pile? _Mello wondered, and then noticed Optimus Prime's head desperately gazing outside a heap of metal.

Oh.

That was interesting.

"And how is it," Mello smiled, "That a 19-year old is assigned to babysit an adult-man?" Near developed a twitch near his brow, "Orders."

"Oh, yes. Near is indeed under orders." Mello's smirk grew as he pulled out an extra-large bar of chocolate (he thought he'd be needing it today, Near always got his blood-pressure dangerously high) and began crunching away.

"Yes, much like you were _ordered _to go to therapy." Near completed the last tower of cards, still not looking at Mello as his face convulsed and he choked, eyes spitting volcanic rage as he punched through Near's complex city of cards.

"You IMBECILE!" Mello shouted, and Near looked a little crest-fallen but largely smug, and his chair on wheels screeched as it turned, "But isn't that why you're here, Mello?"

"I..." Mello shut his eyes for a long, long moment, and Rester chose that time to place a cup of coffee on the table and look at Near worryingly. Near shoo-ed him off and continued to give Mello his attention.

"Yes, I suppose that is why I'm here."

"Then lets make a start." Mello looked a little puzzled, staring at Near's fluffy white head with a 'whatever-you're-up-to-I'm-going-to-find-out' look, but Near simply began collecting his fallen cards and shuffling them. "Well," Mello began, casting an icy glare sideways, "I guess I'm here to a..a..."

Near looked at his guest dead-pan, "I didn't know you were developing a stutter, Mello."

_Crack._ One half of Mello's chocolate bar fell to the ground as he sat in his seat, hyperventilating like a mental patient and murmuring to himself:

_THIS_ _is why I hate the brat so much, _Mello breathed, _there is NOTHING fucking human about him, a complete and utter MUTANT, a diseased sheep that runs on BULLSHIT..._

"Mello?" Near tilted his head, and Mello hated him even more, because it was a mimic of someone who deserved HIS respect, and this person...

"May I suggest," Near twirled a strand of hair, trying to sound vaguely considerate, "That you verbalize your inner conflicts?"

"I don't need your suggestions!" Mello glowered, but stopped himself again to calmly add, "Fine."

Mello relaxed into his seat, and it was silent. Near got tired of staring at the different shades of blonde that ran through to his shoulders, that quietly devilish grin, the genius combined with juvenile adrenaline.

So Near, turning to his wall of monitors, found his remote and switched on the screens. The colours all flashed at once, and the two successors sat in their chairs, eyes flickering from each news channel to music show, until they were comfortable enough to talk like civilized human beings.

Near began reducing the channels, shutting off screens, in order to narrow down interests. Mello straightened in his seat, "Wait a moment." When Near followed Mello's gaze to a screen in the right half of the wall, he turned up the volume immediately. It was a gossip show, Tyra.

"_You must be so EXHAUSTED! How many signings have you been to now?" _Mello and Near both shared an exhausted look themselves; not only was Tyra wearing a Mello-ish bob cut, but she was asking the question to _Beyond Birthday_.

"_Oh, only eight. Its been fantastic, my fans are so marvellous." _

"Apparently you wrote a novel on his case," Near began, eyes never leaving the screen.

_Tyra laughed, the pan shots of the audience all giggling and blushing. _

"That's right," Mello affirmed, "Shouldn't he be in jail?"

"_You've been compared on numerous occasions to Hollywood hottie, Robert Pattinson, because you two are so bloodthirsty," Tyra's powerpoint displayed a large Twilight poster. Beyond leaned back in his seat as she continued, "How do you feel about that? Media journalists say you're intimidated."_

"He's on parole." Near slid the coffee to Mello's side of the table, who accepted, "I expect there's heavy 'brunos and bulls' awaiting the exits."

Mello laughed, " 'Brunos and bulls?' You talk 20's slang?"

Near smirked a little, "I'd say BB's in the_ cahoots_ with a _butter and egg man_. Any _clean sneak button_ _man_ is going to have constant _grilling_ sessions."

"Of course," Mello continued, "The _hammer and saws_ are tight. L's still the _high pillow_, but he's letting the _nance _have his fun 'till its time to face the _lead_."

Near chuckled, "That's rather contradictory, calling him a _nance_."

Mello grinned, "The _daisy's_ a little too flamboyant." He drained the rest of his coffee like it were vodka, slamming the mug down with all the force of a muscled law-enforcer.

Near scoffed, "I never thought I'd hear you refer to someone _else_ as flamboyant."

"—_Well, let me tell you this. I'm ready to go __**all the way**__ and take your boyfriend too." Beyond giggled and helped himself to the bowl of candy situated on the coffee table._

"Case solved," Near and Mello spoke, watching as Tyra attempted to smooth things over.

"_So many with a head but no brain," Beyond sighed, and Tyra humoured him, "Is that all it takes to be your woman, Mr. Birthday?" The crowd all screamed in glee as Beyond looked away faux-shyly. Tyra selected a woman from the audience to speak,_

"_BB, we read about you in the Death Note novel, and we think you have an amazing mind. Will you be one of those celebrities who only date other celebrities, or will you give us ladies a chance?!" _

_Beyond Birthday only stared, then gained a sultry look to his pale face, "It it was you, sweetie, we'd be the front page news."_

The audience's screams were finally silenced by the click of Near's remote. "Sorry, I don't think I could handle any more."

"Fair enough," Mello widened his eyes in horror as they turned away from the afternoon tv shows.

* * *

_:D I hope everyone had a happy easter! :D :D R&R plz, you alert/favourite people!_

_rough slang translations: _

_brunos & bulls: policemen, security, law enforcers._

_butter and egg man: successful businessman/entrapeneur_

_cahoots: in with, doing business with_

_clean sneak: an escape with no clues_

_button man: professional killer_

_grilling: interrogation_

_hammer and saws: cops, policeman._

_high pillow: top man, the boss._

_nance: effiminate man._

_face the lead: bullets, guns._

_daisy: homosexual, dainty man._


	10. Interrogations for Workaholics

_I'm SO sorry for the ridiculously long update!! I've only been writing bits and pieces for about a month, but I decided to get my ass into gear._

_Finally._

_At this point in the fic, things definitely change. There will **STILL** be some elements of comedy, but more so drama. I'll go change the genre now..._

_The plot will definitely be thickening, now that the majority of characters (apart from Matsuda, Aizawa, Mogi, etc... and Misa) have been established. For any of you, or the few of you who has patiently kept with me until now, thankyou... And thankyou for all those alerts. I'll try my best to make this story as interesting as possible, 'cuz I do have some specific situations in mind... I just hope you stick around until then! There will be a LARGE, and LONG buildup to actual romance, because a few things need to happen first..._

_Adult content will (probably) enter around chapter 15, and it won't be the kind you'd expect, so don't freak out D:_

_thanks again, my children. . (ew)_

_Disclaimer: DN isn't mine!!_

* * *

Matt quizzically glanced at his cell phone one last time; Mello was pretty late. He sighed, rubbed his brow, and lifted himself off the sofa to gather the trash bags Mello had left for him to deliver downstairs. _I guess they finally straightened things out, _Matt considered, shaking his red locks out of his periphery.

He twirled a finger around the plastic's crumpled skin; Matt remembered how upset Mello had been as he had read through **DEATH NOTE 13: HOW TO READ**, his oil-slick black fingers tightening, a crinkle in his brow, lips pursed as his eyes read and re-read.

"_Matt... My name means nothing. My nickname, that is." _

Of course it does, Matt thought sourly, _it meant everything. _Just because the author didn't give it some awful metaphorical attachment, like 'flowing, like a river' didn't mean 'Mello' meant _nothing._ Matt hastily looped more knots, carrying two bags in each hand as he nudged the door open with his foot.

"_The original designs... Near... Me... Can you SEE this, Matt?! I was going to be Near!!" Mello howled, shivering in his man-slaughtered skins, and Matt could see the pieces falling apart, Mello's blonde head sinking between his thighs, shoulders bare. He looked cold._

"_It's just a manga..." Matt said, but Mello cut through, "JUST a manga?! Matt, this is my __**LIFE**__!" _

_What could he say? What could he say to make it okay, soothe his sores? Matt decided on directing this runaway train of thought somewhere else._

_Adjusting his goggles, Matt moved to Mello's side, "Better than getting nothing. They didn't even know what to do with me..." _

_Of course, he'd expected his words to go unheard, "I could have WON, goddamnit, I could have WON, and I wouldn't have to be sitting here like an IDIOT, raving to my equally-as-unappreciated company."_

_Matt smirked weakly before he retiring to his own room; Mello made small apologies through his ranting, because he didn't want to separate his sentiments, make them seem important, make him seem emotional._

As Matt sauntered down the steps, fiddling in an earphone with a free hand, he felt eyes on him. As he reached the garbage bin, he angled himself so that as he lifted the smelly lid, he could steal a glance at his watcher.

A man in a heavy trench coat, just outside his apartment. Realising he'd been spotted, he suddenly lifted a cell-phone to his ear and hurried off, long paces that echoed. Matt stared at the whoever's retreating figure until he was out of sight.

Strange.

--

Light stopped dreaming.

The slipping pile of media-trash lay before his feet, the bold letters glowing from the single light he held delicately in his hand. Light let the match fall, and with it: his patience, his tolerance, his conformity.

Kira needed to begin work sometime, didn't he?

Light smirked devishly and walked away at a brisk-pace from the now aflame rumour-mill, his posture straight, eyes always looking straight ahead. Graffiti, like rainbow scars, marked their threats across the dirty walls of the city, proclaiming their needs, their hates, their sins, themselves.

Light walked faster, the wide smile still broadening on his smooth face. A couple of cafe-goers openly stared, but he assumed that they were simply in awe of his handsome features.

Ego clinging close to his breast, he envisioned his utopia, like he had done for so long. The familiar warmth, the longing, tingled up his sides and nestled like a cat within his chest.

_Light was walking, and all they could do was stare._

_Soon they would be bowing, praising, his name decorated all over the cities, his mark, Kira's mark, Kira's—_

_**SMACK.**_

Light had walked directly into a street-lamp, the pole sticking to his forehead. Someone had conveniently stuck a piece of sticky pink gum...head level.

Shit.

It looked like God needed to make an appearance, and soon.

Light quickly un-stuck himself, brushing off his jacket, subtly checking if anyone had seen. Suspicious heads seemed to be swung in opposite directions, random conversations starting, loud and clear.

_For fuck's sake, _Light groaned inwardly, and continued.

He passed a drunken fight breaking out in a dingy alleyway to his right, the air thickening and collecting the harsh shrieks as it passed through each and every murky corner LA had to offer. Like every other city, its cries of shame begged to be heard. The darkness that overlapped the orange-streaming lamps, that curled around the edges of Doc Martins and Manolo blahniks and Converses and Nikes, it begged on its knees for hope. For safety. For light.

Light grinned a little wider at his hideously ironic circumstances. He had a lot of work to do, firstly starting with a few reunions.

--

L fell asleep.

He'd been working fanatically for four days straight, the continuous refilling of the coffee strainer finally taking its toll on Watari's grandfatherly patience. The old man clicked softly on the keyboard, the rectangle labyrinth humming his replies to the current guardian of Wammy's House.

Roger's message was that he'd finally negotiated that Wammy's House be re-established, in total secret of course. The problems with fandom, Watari sighed, was that you had teenagers scouring Winchester like hawks. It needed to be somewhere desolate, unknown.

Watari swung around in his swivel-chair to where L was sighing softly in his sleep. The elderly gentleman subconsciously starting tucking in the sides of the blanket he had draped over L's sleeping form, still in his crouch, still in his large armchair.

When L woke up, he was alone.

Though there was nothing unusual about this, he still found himself checking over his shoulder for any signs of... Steve...

Shivering, he realised he'd been snuggling intently against soft, warm fabric. Flinging the blanket to the side, L moved his cursor as to continue work when...

_**ACCESS DENIED**_

?!

L moved his cursor again.

_**ACCESS DENIED.**_

"What on earth..?" L wondered aloud, and then heard the telltale sound of one clearing their throat. Swinging around in his armchair, L faced Watari.

"What is going on, Watari?" Keeping his face blank, L scrutinized Watari's form. He seemed... uncomfortable. L knew that Watari knew exactly what he was doing, so therefore must be acting in this particular way on purpose. He promptly waited for the elderly man to explain himself.

"L..." Watari started, his low monotone bristling past his moustache with a nervous edge. _L wasn't going to like this._

L still kept silent, eyes boring into Watari's shamelessly, waiting.

Watari stood a little straighter in his navy blue suit. He broke eye contact first.

"I think things need to change."

L blinked. "What?"

"I..." Watari looked up from the tiled ground with sudden emotion glinting out of his blue eyes.

"I think we are very lucky to have this 'chance' again. The things we did in our last lives, or, I should say, _you_ did, are things that have caused both of us inescapable dangers. The stresses of that life..." Watari took a step forward, "Do not need to trouble us again. And yes, when I say 'us,' I mean _you_, L."

L slowly turned his chair back to the computer.

"No." A low murmur spoke, and L then resumed trying to access his computer again.

Watari sighed, grabbed the back of the chair L was crouched on, and swung it back over. L's fingers stopped mid-type, and he clicked his teeth in irritation.

"You're going to have a new life, L, and its going to be hard..."

L cut across his Watari's soft words with razor sharp accuracy. And he wasn't amused. At all.

"Watari, this is my own life, and I think I am more than capable of deducing which course of action is suitable when it comes to my personal health, so—"

Watari shook the chair roughly now, not liking this fight, and resorted to fighting fire with fire.

"No, you _AREN'T._ Your whole _life_ has been designed to work a specific way, for specific reasons, and now that Near is in control, I am TELLING you, L" and L's eyes grew wider, "Not that you aren't needed, but to let the world _be _for now, have a _life..."_

Watari took a breath, and nodded to L's computer, "Starting with no access to federal government databases. Keep your nose out of affairs for a while."

And with that, Watari pinched L's nose gently, which was shocking in itself, and then proceeded to lift the man out of his chair and carry him away. Away from work. Away from... everything.

Yes, things were certainly changing.

* * *

_I pray to my lucky stars that this is going in the direction I want it to.. T_T R&R!!_


	11. Scheming Princesses

_A/N: Long update, I know. Some things won't make sense now, but they will later, if that helps. Dear god, I wonder if anyone reads this O.o_

_Death Noat ain't mine :\_

_but, if I hadn't made that clear in the last 10 chapters, I will now._

* * *

Light Yagami was reading the newspaper. Perhaps a dozen conclusions could be drawn from this, the main contenders being: 1) it would shield his face from any potential fan-girls. 2) The real L had resigned and it was pretty much ALL over the news. 3) Its large pages allowed him to check out the other people waiting to see Julia and Emily, the anime-therapy specialists.

Not that Light believed for a moment that L would REALLY stop being his paranoid-super-sleuth self, but it had certainly caused a rift between certain investigative circuits. _Timing, _Light mused, checking his silver-plated watch, _could never be more perfect. _

Unfortunately, plans to meet with Mikami and Takada were not going as smoothly, not if that deformed man-child Near had anything to do with it. As such, Light awaited for Mello's therapy class to finish. Mello would be a hell of a lot easier to bargain for their whereabouts, as Misa was good as dead to him at the moment.

The petite blonde had been shipped off to _Australia_, where she would be 'under strict-surveillance' as Ohba would arrange for her life to be restructured. It was a good thing. Light had felt an almost-non-existent sting inside as he was told that he would never, ever see her again if he knew what was good for her. Naturally, the woman had already attacked five guards as they'd taken her to the airport.

_That's my girl, _Light thought, traces of what some may perceive as nostalgia pass through his psyche. It felt like an age ago, a lifetime ago (and it can be argued that yes, it was) that Misa had sprung upon him in the night, fishnet stockings ripping at the thighs, a dark beast with baby-blue irises cheerily barring any chances of escape. Light flipped another page of the newspaper. New pages had to be turned, and now, looking back in retrospect, it was easy to see where things had gone wrong. Light could admit that maybe, _maybe_, he had gripped the metaphorical microphone a little too tightly, breathed in the spotlight's rays for a little too long; while attention to Kira had been vital, it had earned him the unwanted eyes of a ruthlessly persistent man, the driving force of every police department in the world.

Light was in the quiet now.

This was very, very lucky, because Kira was still a household name, still _existed_, and Light was still _here_, but nobody would touch him. The alien environment that had twisted itself around all of them, these fictional beings born into reality, would certainly reward Light with easier access to some of the greatest minds around. It would also earn him the time needed to conduct a series of impressively elaborate plots; to once again gain that throne, that for so long had carried with it the curse of failure, failure that had chased and mauled every other daring leader who dared sit upon it.

Light would not only sit upon it: he would extend his throne into a king-sized bed complete with gold-red furnishings and a mini-waterfall cascading into his metaphorical pool of rainbow carp.

_But enough of these superficial thoughts_, Light shook himself,_ I'm not going to become some bubble-gum blowing heiress. I'm going to become God, and rid the world of its wrong-doers, those who lack integrity, the people who bully and steal and rape and are but a thoughtless, mindless entity that takes away our oxygen. Our safety. _

Light would do it all again, with style and class. He would never stop trying, ever.

And it was at that moment that the door opened, and the class from before filed out, girls with green, blue and pink hair all stuffing sheets of paper into their bags and purses, boys who silently slouched off to whatever cage they'd been put in. Light held the paper a little higher, and he knew he was being obvious then, because a girl with strange ears looked right at him, and Light kept the stare until the receptionist answering the alarmingly-loud phone finally moved her away.

Mello came out last, jacket laced with fur and shiny boots alerting anyone in the vicinity why he was there. He _chomped _loudly on a chocolate bar, eyes roaming around the area from under his golden bangs. Light watched, entertained as the man noticeably tensed and grew rigid as a portly fellow flew to his side, holding a blackberry and chattering non-stop.

"See? Not so bad, is it, Mello? So no need to get hasty about seeing the President..."

Mello continued walking toward the exit, looking straight ahead and not showing any sign that he had ever laid eyes on the guy. Balding and twitching, the man jabbered on like a child trying to convince his parents that there were things living in his closet. Probably dirty magazines.

It was then Mello caught Light's eye, immediately stopped before he clasped the door handle (in which the fat man stumbled into him) and then swiftly turned on his boot's heel and charged. Light calmly folded the paper and settled it on the side table, atop the latest OK! magazine. Quite unperturbed, Light Yagami folded his arms as Mello stood over him, breathing fire, embarrassment creeping into pale cheeks.

"And what," Mello softly spoke, "Would Kira be doing here? I thought you'd already be well settled in the nuthouse."

Not a twitch passed Light's face. He mustn't get distracted.

"Ah, that isn't the case at all," and Light stood up, chest to chest with the blonde bombshell. Literally. "I have a proposition, is all. A deal, if you'd like." He smiled coyly, and Mello mirrored it, for a moment, before speaking plain, "Let us go somewhere a little less... open? Unless, of course, you'd like The Joker to overhear your plans to kill all criminals."

Light forced his gaze away and set off for the door, Mello slouching and following. Mr Lavender widened his eyes at the two before shouting, "Hey! Mello! This is _not_ the time to become... 'acquainted' with Mr. Yagami—"

"Excuse me?" Light and Mello turned around, eyes blazing holes into the Mr. Lavender's bald head. "Lavvy," Mello sang bitterly, "Remember whose paying you. I can make that stop," and he lifted the hem of jacket, ever so slightly, a flash of metal—"Like that."

Mr. Lavender went dead silent, and, bowing his head, brushed past the two muttering, "Oh, yes, yes, you two have fun dying all over again..."

Before Mello could react, Light put his hand on his shoulder, "Don't," he breathed, "Let's not waste time." Mello's eyes bore into Light's for a brief moment, then nodded. Light made a mental note: _Bribe Mello with Mr. Lavender's death if need be._

* * *

L sat on his un-used bed, all the time fidgeting. It was around two in the afternoon, and he was feeling eternally restless. What could he do? His heart throbbed at the sight of the empty power point, the three angled lines smiling at him eerily. No electricity. No energy. No work.

No justice.

L curled up into himself, long limbs clawing into soft sides. _God-fudgin-damnit._

He had to get out of this place, this jail cell, before he'd go insane. It was a necessity. It had to happen. L knew he had to work, Watari knew it too (_Watari..._) but he couldn't. He was a princess in a tower; too high up to hear any potential princes calling out from below. L snorted; okay, so he wasn't a _princess_, that was a far too dramatic a statement. In fact, it should serve as a direct reminder that he was going hysterical.

_But, _L thought, _if I am to become the forlorn maiden, that would make Watari the malicious queen. How very humorous. _

L rolled across the bed, stretching as he did so that when he reached the very end, he'd simply slide off into his signature pose. _In which case, _L smirked, _a little witchcraft would have to transpire. _

The lavish suite he was staying in held a bathroom, kitchenette and study, as well as the bedroom he was currently trapped in. Vans of journalists and TV crew were below, while L at least was safe, being 52 storeys up. L shuffled into the study, toward the grand mahogany desk, equipped with a polished turquoise vase of lilies and a black fountain pen.

He drew back the slim chair, crawled atop. Slid open the compartment, where a paper-bag awaited him. A Japanese signature was scribbled on it, incoherent, though distinct in stroke and placement.

'_To L'_

Two fingers lifted the noisy bag, dainty prongs that had grasped the most-sought after piece of meat at a banquet. A book fell out.

* * *

Light was in a foreign neighbourhood. He tightened his fist around the address upon the paper Mello had given him (because electronic messages can be traced, Mello rushed) and continued checking the numbers curled around the buildings. 13... 13....

_Of course it was 13, _Light grimaced, _the morbid animal. _Mello and Light had agreed to be in alliance in the brief few minutes they had, walking down that familiar arcade before recognition. Mello had been quite clear that he wasn't keen on giving Light his address, for whatever reason, and Light had returned the favour. Mello was of the Wammy clan, a 'helpless orphan bred into the rich vein of justice.'

_I don't think so, _Light mocked.

This guy definitely was proof of that, the brunette recalled, heading toward the apartment complex with a couple of paparazzi crouching around it. _Shit. _Light immediately turned into an alleyway, the sunlight grazing his back and he walked down a narrow pathway lined with thick bushes. He didn't want people to get the wrong idea. Not now.

The cracked pavement broke into a mini-car park, the back of the building leading to a train-track, and across, the LA city lights. The district itself was quiet, rich, the large white Hollywood letters beaming as its neighbour. It was odd though, the train track.

Light walked across the carpark, which was mostly full, and to the back entrance. Of course, there were security guards. More so to scare the occupant.

Light reached around to his over-the shoulder bag, pulling out his documents in one fluid motion. The beefcake wearing a cap that said 'LA BITCHEZ BEWARE' nodded, stepping aside by approximately an inch. Light squeezed himself between the two giants before making his way to the door. A keypad cheerfully beeped every so often, and Light checked the crumpled slip of paper again. Typing in 404, then bell, he tapped the marble impatiently.

He was nervous. _Which is perfectly plausible, given the circumstances. Well, the individual._

"_Hello?"_

Uhh. "Hello, this is Light."

"_Hello?"_

Sigh.

"Let me in, you idiot."

"_Sorry, I don't converse with strangers. Especially insulting ones."_

Light clenched his jaw, "Hey, do you miss jail?"

"_Not particularly."_

"You will if you don't let me in."

"_No need to get defensive, K-chan."_

A loud _bzzzz_ and the door unhinged. Light stood a fraction straighter and walked in.

* * *

8O


End file.
